Unexpected
by born30
Summary: She's young. Exotic. And unexpected. Tiva drabble.


_**Disclaimer: **__NCIS is not mine, as my bank account can attest.__**  
>AN: **__If you're familiar with any of my stories, you'll recognize this as a departure for me, but it was a great challenge. This drabble was inspired by a photo, which is on my Tumblr (link in my profile), if you are so inclined. _

_Happy reading!_

* * *

><p>She's young. Exotic. And unexpected.<p>

They don't see her coming, but then she's there, and then she's everywhere. Not so much the Mossad liaison that was promised as a real part of their team, replacing the phantom limb that Kate used to animate. It happens so seamlessly that they all go along with it, not questioning only adapting to her different, coiled way of carrying that arm, like a cobra prepared to strike. She balances them again.

But they don't know her.

And for awhile that's okay with Tony.

It's enough that Gibbs trusts her, though one look at his string of ex-wives and a certain NCIS Director, and it's safe to say his track record for picking women is less than bankable. He should stick with picking agents for his team. He picked _her_. At least, he didn't send her away.

Instead, he sends her on missions with Tony. Missions they simultaneously are and aren't ready for. Missions that require a certain amount of delicacy and…coordination between partners. Despite Gibbs' endorsement, Tony doesn't completely trust her yet, and she'd probably return the sentiment. The only thing going for the new pair is that they are very distinctly attracted to each other.

It almost surprises him how much.

And though they're constantly dispatched undercover as a flirty couple, an affectionate couple, a married couple, nothing is sincere. What is real are the His and Her guns that often end up pointed in their faces and the close calls and how it's always one bed in the hotel room, and suddenly not knowing much beyond the basics about her bothers him.

There are days when she alone is what he recognizes. Everything else is staged and corrupt. He's not sure what he has in her, but she is _all _he has.

So he resolves to learn along the way.

When she suggests they fake sex to sell their aliases, he's far and away from complaining and takes note—_wild_. (Later, he amends it to _dedicated_, as if someone might stumble upon the list in his head.)

When she snores like a member of Captain Jack Sparrow's pirate crew and he concludes it's not a sinus infection that will go away—_incorrigible._

When she plays the cheating wife to ensnare a target and he is forced to grit his molars and listen to the moans and heavy breathing through comms, until the appointed time to burst in on the make-out session—_capable of torture._

He starts to think he knows her pretty well. He knows English idioms are her Achilles ' heel; that she won't watch movies with him unless there's popcorn with extra butter; that he can trust her with his life; and that she uses coconut & honey shampoo because the scent lingers on the sheets long after she slips out of them for 5 a.m. runs.

Then there are things he finds out but doesn't want to know. Like how she can shut out everyone, especially him, going from warm and foreign to absolutely frigid without warning. How she drinks him under any table, but never loses her wits. How she was a spy, and still sometimes is. The efficient way she attacks—with her body, or her knife; hers is an intimate combat, where he prefers the distance from death that a gun affords.

She's the same way in bed.

Even if they start the night on their own sides, he's never sure what will greet him in the morning, eyelids peeling up like shades on a window: the back of her brunette head or a smooth, rounded shoulder, with the rest of her lithe body like the curve of a blade against him; the toasted-almond hue of her forehead, tipped downward, maybe accidentally grazing his naked chest, while their ankles tangle under the blankets.

Sometimes, she's waiting for _him_.

Her oval, cat-like eyes do not shy away when he wakes, and he wonders if she's been keeping a list about him as he has about her. But he's not really thinking about anything aside from the artful swoop of her thick hair, an ocean wave cascading over the white pillow case, and her rosy, flower petal lips that (sadly) disappear from his view all too soon. Her slender arm slides up between them, cutting across her face; the forearm becomes a pillow for her temple, and he stops breathing at the unintentional peek of a dark, puckered nipple over the lip of her bra as she burrows, almost coy, into the bedding.

But he knows her better than that now.

She's as young and exotic as when she came out of nowhere, but he's taken note of her every angle, in disguise and with her guard relaxed, and he knows she's a spear that has seen war; she has chinks and rust, but she sharpens her edges, and he risks being slashed open wide with outstretched fingertips, flesh, tongue.

For him, she makes an exception.

The taste of her is familiar—that soft, tangy female flavor of all the women he has made love to before her. But as it was with Kate, she is her own in the place of her predecessors, beguiling the mold to her measurements rather than stretching herself to the corners. She forges over him a new trail, teeth digging into the soil of his body, tiling up the dry, harsh fields of previous seasons. She is a flood, destroying and cleansing.

She is impatient. Bare. And uncontainable.

He lets her bracket his hips with her knees and bunch the sheets under him with the demanding rhythm of her want, and when she's through, he presses her flush, sensitive body between his own desire and the mattress, etching a name for himself above all the men who left her unattended, tight and hungry, for him to unravel now.

They didn't know her, either. Tony has learned.

Or so he believes.

Without ploy of deception, theirs is a consuming flame, turning to ash what they were and spitting them back out, pink and raw. Ribbons of smoke are still rising off the uncovered layer of her skin as fresh secrets surface, scabbing over quickly.

And he thinks—_there is no end to her. _

He could spend the rest of his life lining them up, transferring the invisible ink from her to him, and it might never be enough to decipher her in full.

But he's come to expect nothing less than being the one to try.


End file.
